Boys Will Be Boys
by PrincessOfSparta
Summary: Boys will always be curious and energetic, boys will always play fight and play rough, but a time will come where boys will need to become men.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings or any of the characters**

The sun was high in the sky as the young boys ran through the field, wooden swords clutched tight in their hands. One was older than the other, noticeably so, by about five years. The smaller boy was thin, pale too, looking altogether much weaker than his older sibling.

"Boromir, wait!" called out the smaller child, as his elder brother raced ahead and disappeared over the brow of the hill, showing no signs of slowing down to allow his sibling to catch up.

Puffing for breath, the ginger haired child approached the hill top, slowing down to scramble up the steep peak of the mound. However, upon reaching the summit his brother was nowhere to be seen and the boy flopped down, exhausted and moody.

"Oi! Weasel!"

Boromir's voice made Faramir jump, and he leapt to his feet, regretting showing his dejectedness at being left alone so readily.

"Up here!"

Faramir whipped around, still unable to find the twelve year old shouting at him. His face a picture of dismay and confusion, Faramir continued to search the landscape for his mousey-haired brother.

"What took you so long?"  
Boromir gloated, leaping from an overhead branch and landing in front of a very surprised Faramir.  
"Come on!"

Without leaving his brother much time for thought, he set off again. Down the hill he ran, running faster with every pace, a red-faced Faramir in tow - whether he was rose cheeked from running or from crying was unclear. Anxious to keep up and not be abandoned again, Faramir ran steadily behind his brother, his brows furrowed in determination. Boromir finally came skidding to a halt when he reached a stream, not fast flowing or deep, but too wide too leap across. A devious smile flickered across his lips as he caught sight of Faramir in the corner of his eye.

Spinning to face him, he raised the wooden sword to threaten his brother, who flinched, anticipating the coming blows. As the sword, which in reality was little more than a stick, fell through the air, Faramir moved his sword to defend against his brother. The swords clashed, and the boys tumbled about, mock sword fighting with their wooden weapons. Faramir did manage to block some of his brother's attacks, but many more rained down on his arms, chest and stomach until he was hurting all over. Boromir grabbed his younger brother, knocking away his sword as he did so.

Throwing his right arm around Faramir's neck to hold him in a secure headlock, Boromir kept a firm grasp on the hilt of his own wooden sword in his left hand. With his brother struggling in vain under his arm, Boromir strode purposefully towards the river. A sharp kick in the shins and a shove sent Faramir tumbling into the water, but that wasn't enough.

Boromir knelt on the grassy bank, and placed his hand amongst the boy's ginger ringlets, applying a gentle but vicious pressure which forced Faramir's head below the surface. The struggling became floundering as Boromir giggled in delight at the power he could exert over his weedy little brother. His arms flailed desperately as Boromir refused to let up, until his body went limp in the water, giving up the fight.

**Thanks for reading, I'd really appreciate any comments/thoughts you have - it'll only take a second to type and it would mean a lot to me! Thank you x**


	2. Chapter 2

Boromir gawped in horror as his brother's limbs became lifeless.

As much as he had enjoyed teasing and tormenting Faramir, he had never meant for _this_ to happen. Grasping his brother's tiny frame, he dragged the body from the water, too shocked to think about what he had done. The skin was still warm, but Boromir hardly noticed as he slung Faramir over his shoulder to carry him home.

As he trudged along the path they had ran along so many times together, a tear rolled down his cheek. He wiped it away quickly, ashamed that he should be crying, especially if it was because of _Faramir_. He suddenly realised how light his brother was, how skinny the small body resting over his shoulder was, and felt ashamed that he had…had _killed_ such a vulnerable person.

Killed

_Killed_

Boromir had always imagined himself a warrior, courageous and mighty, slaying his foes with a skilfully wielded sword, cutting down the enemy on a bloody battlefield. He had always envisaged himself _killing_, but never like this.

This was neither skilful nor courageous, and Boromir was ashamed – so caught up in the excitement of the power he wielded that he had forgotten about consequences. "Everything a man does has consequences" his mother had always said that. She was right.

The tears fell freely now, running down his cheeks, dripping from his face, and he didn't care who saw him cry.

The village people stared as he walked past – the steward's son? What was going on? But no one dared to intervene. Soon the initial excitement and novelty of the strange sight wore off, and they went busily about their ordinary lives.

Boromir approached the gate, beginning to feel weary of his load. The guards, recognising him, opened the gate and he proceeded. He found his father in the throne room, talking with his council of advisors, and collapsed to the floor in tears.

"Stop this at once!" his father hissed, clearly embarrassed by his eldest son's show of emotion, "dry your tears and – for god's sake, why are you carrying your brother?"

"Father….he's…." Boromir stumbled over his words as a fresh burst of tears erupted from his reddened eyes.

"What's the matter with you, boy? He's out cold as night! I hope there is a good explanation for this, Boromir – and control yourself, there's no use in crying, I've told you that before."

Boromir sniffed, wiping his eyes on the muddy sleeve of his cotton tunic and rolled Faramir onto the floor.

"Sir," Boromir spluttered, "he's dead"

"Stop being ridiculous, he'll come round. Where are your swords? You'll never make a soldier with such a careless attitude! Tell me what happened, and quickly, I am a busy man."

Boromir didn't remember dropping his sword, but assumed he must have forgotten it by the river when he pulled Faramir out of the water.

"Boromir? Answer me." His father's words halted his track of thought, and without meaning to, he blurted out "I saved him!"

Whether it was unwillingness to accept fault in his ways and responsibility for his actions, or his eagerness to please his father that provoked the proclamation was unclear.

"I saved Faramir – he was drowning in the river, struggling against the current, but I pulled him out. I carried him home – all the way."

It wasn't a lie, at least, not entirely; he had dragged his brother out of the water, and carried him home, but it was not the whole truth. Boromir failed to mention that it was he that pushed the boy into the river, and kept his head under until he fainted.

"Well done, boy, indeed – you will make a steward of Gondor yet! Unlike your brother here, fainted while swimming? How glad I am that you are the eldest son, and not he"

His father's words were uplifting, yet Boromir felt as if he had been stabbed; how could he say such things? There his brother lay, unconscious – barely alive – and he stood bathing in his father's praise. He felt sick. Boromir shuffled to the table to fetch a goblet filled with water, which he poured gently on Faramir's face in attempt to revive him, but to no avail. Faramir's chest rose and fell steadily, with reassuring consistency, so Boromir did not doubt that he lived, but nonetheless could not bring him back to consciousness. It was then that Boromir became aware of the council advisors, who had witnessed his childish outburst of emotion, and felt self-conscious. A steely glare from his father sent him hurrying sheepishly from the room, glad to escape from the watchful eyes of the city elders.

**I've never done a story with multiple chapters before, and I was wondering how quickly other authors update their stories - as in every day, every week or about once a month? Any suggestions appreciated there, please PM me or leave a comment about it. **

**Thank you all x**


	3. Chapter 3

******Third C**hapter: Boromir rides, reads and reconciles with his brother. 

**Hi there, I just wanted to say thanks for clicking on my fanfic - I hope you enjoy it.**

The pony whinnied as Boromir nudged her into a trot, the horse master watching from the wooden fence and shouting instructions, which the young rider ignored. Boromir hated riding lessons – being bossed and shouted at by that old stable-boy, being treated like a child. He would much rather take the chestnut mare out into the field, alone, and ride by the river, or up to the forest. He could ride as fast as wanted; he would canter at first, and then gallop, jumping felled trees and logs, the whole world in front of him. He could imagine the wind in his hair, rustling the curls on his head.

Besides, he was being taught to ride like a girl; how would he ever fight with a sword on horseback if he knew only how to ride holding the reins in both hands? He had been told that he was too young to ride properly, too small, so here he was, riding like a woman instead of a warrior. At least he could ride, he thought to himself. Faramir, on the other hand, could barely tack up a pony, and always confused the throat lash with the cheek pieces.

Faramir.

Boromir had hated his brother, always following him around like a sad, dejected puppy. There were days when Boromir did not doubt that he wanted to kill Faramir, but in light of recent events, he realised that he would kill _for_ him as well.

Faramir lay in his chamber, having not moved since the incident. He was carried to his bed by a guard, and looked after in his room by a young maid, who was apprenticed to the physician. The first time he woke was during the night, remembering very little of the previous day. His father had visited once; to ask the maiden how long it would be until he would be well enough to continue with writing lessons. That was all. He barely even glanced at his son, who was feigning sleep to avoid having to swallow any more of the vile liquids the maiden continuously produced from the chest.

The boys took lessons in reading and writing together in the library, mentored by city elders. It was during one such session that Boromir saw his brother for the first time since the incident. Boromir sat at the oak table in the centre of the room, reading fluently from an old book entitled, "The Mountains of Mist", a fictional work by an esteemed author, who Faramir had never heard of. He entered quietly, so much so that Boromir did not notice his arrival until he drew up a chair and sat down beside the grey haired mentor. Boromir stopped reading to look up and smile at his brother, who looked even pastier than usual, and not well at all.

"Read on" their mentor prompted, placing a much thinner book with larger print in front of Faramir, who looked dismayed at the prospect of having to read. Faramir could read, and fairly well, but not aloud – he lacked Boromir's confidence, and always seemed to mumble and stumble over the words. His older brother appeared so self-assured, so bold, willing to do anything, and Faramir had always looked up to him. He thought of his brother as fearless, vividly recalling a day when Boromir couldn't find his pony's girth, and so swung up onto the mare's back without one. He rode around the field bareback, and loving every moment of it. He never seemed to be afraid of getting hurt or afraid of anything at all, and Faramir admired him.

The lesson was dismissed, and the brothers walked out together, Faramir sweeping their pile of books into his arms, as usual.

"Hello, little brother," Boromir smiled, "I've missed you around, you know."

Faramir was lost for words, so said nothing at all, instead smiling bashfully at the ground.

"Here, let me take some of those," Boromir offered, taking the pile of books from his brother's arms, "come on, let's go to the stables."

Something had changed. Boromir realised as they walked in contented silence that something was different. After the incident by the river, Boromir felt ashamed of hurting someone so much more vulnerable. He knew now that his place was to protect Faramir as a father should, and to love him as his mother would.

**So you've reached the end of this chapter! What did you think of it? I'd love to know your opinion, so please leave a review if you have time/can be bothered. It's effort, I know, but I'd really appreciate it if you did.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Fourth Chapter: Boromir longs for excitement, at any cost, but such a desire for danger will surely only bring trouble to even the most confident of young boys.**

Boromir whistled to attract the attention of a passing stable-girl, who looked up from the tack she was cleaning to politely blush and smile. He sat stroking his chestnut mare absent minded, which he had named Kali, and had been a present from his father when he reached ten years. He wanted to ride today, to feel the leather pommel between his knees and the reins between his fingers, but the horse master refused; he had already spent several hours this morning trotting up and down the yard, and Kali needed to rest. Boromir resented being told what to do. He was twelve, and perfectly old enough to do as he pleased, thank you very much. A guard led a grey stallion with a scarlet saddle past, the steward's horse – a fine and well-bred war horse, given the name Tudnas. This sparked an idea in the boy's active mind – just because he couldn't ride Kali, it didn't mean he couldn't ride at all today. There were plenty of horses in the stables of Gondor, hundreds even. But he didn't just want to ride any horse; he wanted his father's horse.

Leaping over the haystack, he raced out of the stables and through the garden, narrowly avoiding running into one of the city elders. He found Faramir sitting alone in the courtyard, looking dolefully at the white tree which dominated the stone entrance to the city.

"Come on. I've got something to show you."

Boromir winked cheekily at his brother, a devious grin spreading across his face. The he turned and walked away, back towards the stables. Faramir's childish curiosity compelled him to follow, entranced by Boromir's air of mystique.

They found themselves standing beside a mighty horse, which stood much taller than both of the boys, a muscular chest and scarred muzzle boasting of many-a battle. The stallion was already tacked, with a scarlet cloth trimmed in royal gold, and Boromir felt exhilarated by the sheer thought of this daring deed. Faramir stood in wonder as his elder brother leapt, sure footed, onto the haystacks.

Their father's horse was notoriously difficult to handle, yet the most reliable and sturdy mount any could soldier could wish to ride into battle on. Boromir drew a deep breath and swung up onto Tudnas' back, effortlessly landing in the saddle. However, he had surprised the horse, which was an edgy and impatient beast at the best of times. Tudnas reared, pawing the musky stable air with his hooves. Boromir clung tight to the grey mane, leaning forwards and grasping with his legs in effort to remain on the horse rather than under it. Faramir's eyes widened as he witnessed the huge horse attempt to throw off his brother in the stable, which had made the boy feel claustrophobic already. The young rider regained his balance, soothing the stallion, which fell back into a standing position. Faramir winced and covered his eyes as the horse's hooves rained down in the enclosed space, frightened by the seemingly enormous size of the horse.

Faramir did not know whether to trust his elder brother, with his courage and fiery curiosity, or to find doubt in his lack of concern for risk and danger. Either way, there was little Faramir could do as his brother paraded through the stables, proudly sitting atop his father's horse. It was nearly dusk; the soldiers were at their posts and the stable-boys in their beds, which left the boys very much alone. Faramir had never shared his brother's thrill and enthusiasm for mischief, and his initial intrigue had turned to worry and fret as Boromir showed no intention of climbing off the stallion. In his eyes, the fun was only just beginning.

Tudnas took long strides – Boromir looked tiny in comparison to the bulky horse. Faramir had to jog to keep pace, careful to keep his distance from the stallion's rear legs, and equally wary of being trodden on. Boromir was exhilarated by the experience, although secretly a little unsettled by the size and temperament of his mount. He was not yet satisfied, and yearned for speed and energy, action and adrenaline. Taken by the moment, he spurred the horse into a trot, to which the jittery mount reacted spontaneously and unpredictably, bolting towards the far end of the field.

Boromir was panicked and alarmed, yet felt more alive than ever. His eyes were wide, his heart in his mouth, and he loved it. The reins were loose in his hands, giving Tudnas leeway to push forwards and canter faster still. A wooden fence was fast approaching, and the young rider instinctively forwards, urging the stallion to jump over the barrier, which Tudnas did, easily. Boromir felt at home in the saddle, as if he belonged. He felt safe.

Faramir watched dubiously as his elder brother disappeared into the twilight at an alarming speed. Their father would be _furious._

** NB**  
Kali – Westron word for merry or joyful  
Tudnas – Westron word for guards

**Hi there, thanks for reading this! I know I haven't updated in a while (sorry about that) but I'd really appreciate it if you left a review. Thank you x**


	5. Chapter 5

**Fifth Chapter: While Boromir is busy celebrating with his father, Faramir battles to overcome fear in order to help a desperate creature.  
**

Denethor clapped his hand on Boromir's shoulder,

"Thirteen summers, you're growing up, son. You'll be a man soon."

The Steward smiled proudly at his eldest son,  
"It's about time you had a proper sword – steel, forged by the best blacksmith in the city. In fact, it shall be done right away. Send word to – no, Boromir, we will go to him ourselves. You're first real sword; you must be there to watch it forged."

With that, Denethor swept out of the room, his son at his side, father and son - quite a picture. Though, they looked hardly alike; Denethor had sharp cheekbones and coal hair, while his son had ginger curls and a rounder face, they walked with the same attitude, which marked them unmistakeably as kin.

Faramir watched as they turned down the corridor, out into the courtyard, unsure as to whether he should follow. Best not to. He would only get in the way. Instead he sat by the window, watching the rays of light dance across the wooden desk-top. It was quiet inside, but beyond the stone wall the boy could make out the shouting of merchants, laughter of children and whinnying of ponies. Between him and busy everyday life stood only a stone wall, yet he felt as if he were in another world.

He didn't remember getting up or leaving, but found himself sitting in the gardens. Disrupted from his daze-like state by a small dog yapping at his heels, he realised how much he despised nose. He hated the loud, vehement hordes of villagers, the constant background chatter gave him headaches, and most of all he hated the high pitched screeching of violas played by the court jester. He could not understand why people would want to cause such disturbance when they could be quiet and still. Recently he had avoided going out during the day, while the city was crowded and busy, much preferring to walk in the twilight when the city was hushed and serene.

The dog continued to whine pathetically at his feet until he was unable to ignore it any longer, and scooped the small mutt into his arms. Startled, the mutt scrambled from his grasp, and the frightened frenzy caught Faramir's hand between its jaws. Crimson droplets welled up in the fresh cuts, bringing tears to his eyes. The sight of blood made Faramir feel dizzy and nauseated.

A constant throbbing battered his skull as he opened a bleary eye. His face was wet, and he couldn't for the life of him remember how he had come to be sprawled on the ground. His vision was slowly clearing, and he could just make out the grey figure leaning over him. The damp black nose of the scruffy dog sniffled at his cheek before Faramir was able to push himself unsteadily to his feet. Looking in disgust at the mongrel which stared up at him, Faramir wiped the dog saliva from his face and wobbled back to his rooms. It was only when he swung open the door to his chambers that the boy realised the dog was still at his heels. Faramir scowled at the animal and sank onto his bed.

The dog clearly didn't belong to anyone, and now he came to think of it, looked as if it hadn't eaten in days. The boy stumbled across to the desk, upon which sat a slice of bread, untouched. He hadn't been hungry this morning. Within seconds of dropping it to the floor, the puppy had devoured the morsel hungrily, the bread disappearing quickly – save a few crumbs. Licking its lips, the dog bounced onto the bed and curled up in the middle, claiming the mattress. It seemed there was little Faramir could do except keep the animal – he couldn't turn it out onto the streets to starve as his father would, or take to it with a stick as he had seen his elder brother beat other stray animals. This was his dog now, and as he glanced nervously at the sleeping mongrel he decided that he would call it Balc.

"I've been looking for you, little brother." Boromir strode in, a leather sheath dangling from a belt. It was new. He smiled, "Five years and this'll be you, you know. Just think of that – Faramir with his first real sword."

He was trying to be nice.

Faramir looked up at his brother, his eyes shining with admiration for his sibling, a real sword entrusted into his keeping. "Can I see it?"

Boromir took a step back and slid the metal sword out, holding it in front of him. The blade looked natural in his grip, the hilt fitting comfortably in his palm.

"I've called it Tuca. Father says I'll have proper fighting lessons now, with his own guards. You can come if you like." Boromir looked expectantly to his brother, his eyes then shifting to the grey ball of fur lying on his bed. "What's that? I thought you hated dogs."

"No I don't!" retorted Faramir defensively, "they just scare me."

Boromir shrugged nonchalantly and left the room, the door swinging shut behind him.

Dogs did frighten him, especially big ones, but this one was different. He was sure of it. Balc needed him, or at least needed food and shelter. Balc wouldn't hurt him again, he reassured himself, as he perched tentatively on the edge of the bed.

**NB:**

**In the Common Language, **

**Balc means 'horrible' and Tuca means 'Daring'**

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	6. Chapter 6

**Sixth Chapter: The final chapter **

Boromir sat sullenly at the table, grimacing at the floor.

Denethor was pacing the length of the room, his brows furrowed. But he wasn't angry, more disappointed. Boromir would have preferred him to get angry, to shout and curse like he does with Faramir. This was worse. He hated disappointing his father, who always had so much faith that his eldest son would prove a worthy heir. He had found out.

Someone had told him everything; how he stole the horse, rode in the dark without permission – and on Tudnas too. He could have got away with it – and nearly did – but _someone _told their father.

Boromir knew who this someone was.

"Go, Boromir, just go." Denethor shook his head dejectedly, astonished at the boy's audacity and cheek.

Boromir rose gloomily from the chair and trooped out of the room. At that moment he glimpsed the familiar ginger curls bouncing around the corner, with the scruffy mutt in tow. In that second his frustration turned to anger, and his fiery anger transformed into hatred for his little brother.

Striding forwards purposefully, Boromir rounded the corner to watch Faramir disappear over the brow of the hill beyond the gate. Increasing his pace, fuelled by anger and desire for vengeance, the older and much larger boy quickly closed the distance. His father was meant to be proud of him; Faramir was the disappointment, the one their father would look at with shame and regret, not Boromir. He marched faster still.

Grabbing his younger brother by the scruff of the neck, he aggressively leapt forwards, with a fire in his eyes that terrified Faramir. A rough shove sent the smaller boy tumbling to the ground, as Boromir raised a clenched fist. He stopped, shuddering, having caught sight of the river shimmering in the sunlight. A moment later he too was on the ground, dazed by the vivid flashback to the day he'd rather not remember. He looked to his brother, guilty that he could forget so easily what might have, and almost, happened. A salty tear glanced off his face, and then another. Boromir raised his eyes to meet his brother's, imploring his forgiveness. Faramir had never seen his brother like this before, unashamedly allowing tears to pour from his reddening eyes. He's never seen his brother cry before. His brother, who he desperately admired, who was so bold and daring, who carefully guarded his emotions, who never showed any signs of weakness, was crying. At loss for what to say or do, Faramir sat dumbly by his brother's shaking figure.

And then the moment was gone; Boromir heaved himself to his feet and stormed away from his gawping younger sibling. The grey stray growled as he strode off, but the boy took no notice. Stuck between fuming in fury and breaking down in tears, Boromir was lost inside his own mind.

That day at the river, that fateful day, he had vowed to protect – not harm – his brother. And yet he found it so difficult to refrain from instinctively accusing the vulnerable boy who was so easy to blame. Protecting his brother from harsh reality would do more harm than good; how would Faramir, the weak, defenceless moron, who never faced any challenge or danger, cope with real life?

Nonetheless, family should stick together, and brothers should stand by one another. But Faramir had ratted him out, grassed to their father. He didn't deserve to be treated as a brother. Boromir could look after himself, always had. Boromir had grown up when their mother died, become more responsible and wise, despite the fact he was only young at the time. Faramir would have to do the same. He didn't need Faramir, or even like him – he held poor company, tired easily, couldn't ride, hated running – why should he feel any affiliation or duty towards Faramir? Faramir was nothing, and in the _real_ world, it is every man for himself.

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